


Jubilees

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 5 Times Fic, Count and Countess Lecter, F/M, Florence Arc, POV Alternating, Post Season 3, Therapy Years, red dragon arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 10:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15661188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Five anniversaries in different stages of their relationship.





	Jubilees

**Diamond**

“That is all the time we have for today.”

Bedelia flips her wrist and touches her watch without even glancing at it, nothing more than a well-practised part of a long running play. She places the pen on top of her notes, another bit of the same routine, before looking back at her patient, still sitting idly in his chair, legs crossed, his expression as always suspended between open curiosity and hidden longing.

“Red or white?” she presses her hands on the armrests, ready to move, but stops mid gesture when her question is met with abnormal silence.

It is not like Hannibal to miss the prompt; as the leading actor he never forgets his lines. Bedelia stays seated, gazing at his face, now showing clear signs of concealed thoughts on a brink of reveal.

“Would you like to forego the wine today?” she asks, her own curiosity sparking with fresh fervour. Hannibal is a creature of habit and that particular one is his favourite.

“No,” he responds immediately, confirming his attachment to their stolen after-session moments, “but I have brought a bottle from my own cellar. I hope you don’t mind.”

His eyes briefly dart to the side with boyish uncertainty. It looks good on him.

“Of course not,” she responds, intrigued by this uncommon offering.

“I will be back in a moment,” he springs up from his chair, a bright smile on his lips, while Bedelia remains in hers, contemplating his motives.

Finally, she shakes off the thoughts and gets up to fetch the glasses.

When she returns from the kitchen, Hannibal is already waiting for her, proudly displaying the bottle in his hands. She steps closer to examine the label; Cabernet Sauvignon, her favourite red, a ten-year-old vintage. She does not recall that year being famed for these grapes, but then again, she is hardly an expert.

Hannibal beams anew when she offers him a nod of approval and takes the corkscrew from her hand to open the bottle with ease. Cork out, he inhales deeply, satisfied with the initial notes.

“It would benefit from decanting, but I think we can manage,” he explains while pouring the wine slowly into the glass and handing it to Bedelia with grace and a touch of flare in a gesture, then filling the other glass.

“What is the occasion?” she asks, watching the red hues swirling in the ball. The offering seems very _specific_.

“Why does it have to be an occasion? I thought you would enjoy this vintage,” his response is quick, as though he had rehearsed it.

Bedelia looks up from her glass, tilting her head to the side in silent scrutiny. They both know how unconvincing his words were. Hannibal falls silent, his fingers tracing the stem of his glass, the tell-tale mannerism betraying his pensive disposition. She samples her wine, excellent as expected, and waits patiently.

“Today is the day we met. Well, the day I saw you for the first time, in the library, exactly ten years ago,” his tone is still hesitant as if he was divulging a deeply hidden secret. He hides his face behind the glass while taking a sip and Bedelia half expects to spot a blush creeping under his cheek.

_Ten years ago._ Her own skin feels suddenly warm at the unexpected revelation. But of course, he would remember the day, so does she, for that matter. She recalls a young man with sharp features and even sharper eyes, observing her keenly from the distance and thinking it was unnoticed. She was surrounded by a tall stack of books after all.

“I saw you too, you know. It is a day we met, in a way,” the corner of her lips turns up as she feels suddenly light-hearted. It must be the wine. It could be the memories.

“But you had waited for me to approach you first. Why?” his eyes are wide, previous reserve now gone, eager to grasp any opportunity to discover the workings of her mind.

“I was curious. I wanted to see what you would do,” she responds with a smile and Hannibal’s gaze flickers instantly as if she was its hidden switch.

“Do you always play the waiting game, Doctor Du Maurier?” he attempts to make it sound like a casual conversation, but his absorption is barely contained.

“No, only if I am really-” her voice trails off mid-sentence as she becomes acutely aware that she might have disclosed too much.

_Really interested_. She does not finish her thought, but Hannibal’s expression of quiet delight indicates it was not necessary. It is her turn to hide behind the glass. Another interval of silence falls like a curtain as they both reset the stage afresh between careful sips of wine.

“It was not such a significant day to warrant this gift,” she regains her composure, steering the conversation away from the uncharted waters of her heart.

“You know it’s quite the contrary, Bedelia,” he states firmly and her skin blushes at once, an unwanted admittance of her own sentiments.

“To those ten years then,” she raises the glass, ignoring the heat advancing down her cheeks.

“To the next ten years. And more,” Hannibal counters with confidence, raising his own glass.

And Bedelia knows he is not referring to their sessions.

 

**Citrine**  

The black velvet stands out against the gold fixtures as he sets the package down on her vanity. Hannibal adjusts its placement, corners of the box in line with corners of the counter, smiling to himself. He gives the box one last glance, then his attention moves to the suit laid out neatly on the bed; he looks forward to tonight’s gala.

He is fastening his cuff links when sweet notes of gardenia announce her arrival. He turns to see Bedelia, looking as stunning as always, soft navy satin of her dress wrapping itself smoothly around her figure, making his fingers twitch, wanting nothing more than trade places with the fabric. She stops by her vanity, eyes inspecting the unknown object that has suddenly appeared among the jars and bottles.

“It is not my birthday, Hannibal,” she sits down on the chair, picking up a lipstick, ready to apply the finishing touches to her already immaculate make-up.

“I know,” he responds, still standing in his corner, watching her hold the lipstick without opening it, her gaze shifting to the box, “I thought you might want to wear it tonight.”

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly as she studies his reflection in the mirror. After a moment of deliberation, she puts the unused lipstick down and takes the box. Her fingers gently graze the velvet cover, enjoying its feel. She carefully traces the edges of the package, as if trying to guess its contents. Or expecting a concealed trap but finds none. There is nothing left to do but open the box; Bedelia’s stare widens as she lifts the cover, the gleam in her eyes matching the sparkle of the stones inside. A sapphire and diamond bracelet rests expectantly on the fabric, ready to serve its new owner.

“Hannibal, this is exquisite,” Bedelia’s fingers now move to trail the jewels, a row of mirrored fleurs de lys.

“It belonged to the Empress Marie-Louise,” Hannibal explains and smiles seeing her reaction. Her delight is the only thing that matters to him.

“You shouldn’t have,” she looks up at him while her fingertips continue to skim over the intricate design, “This is too much.”

“Not for you,” he meets her gaze and she smiles, briefly averting her gaze, afraid that it will betray her emotions.

“Thank you,” she says, collecting herself anew.

“May I?” he asks, stepping closer and Bedelia nods her head in silent permission, offering her arm.

Hannibal removes the bracelet from its box and places it on Bedelia’s wrist with utmost delicacy, closing the clasp.

“ _Perfetto_ ,” he comments, thumb brushing over the skin of her palm.

Bedelia twists her wrist, admiring the piece resting gently on her skin, before turning her head to him, another smile playing about her lips.

“We don’t want to be late.”

 

Hannibal adores to watch her dazzle the Florentine society; a flawless diamond among the fake stones of pretence. Tonight, she shines as well, charming all the faculty and their spouses effortlessly, making the jewels on her wrist pale by comparison.

“Excuse me, but I promised my wife a dance,” Hannibal approaches the group, his arm slowly sneaking around Bedelia’s waist.

The Latin professor who was hanging on her every word looks crestfallen; it gives Hannibal a strange satisfaction.

“I think you broke the man’s heart,” Bedelia comments with a smirk as he leads her to the middle of the floor.

“Your departure broke his heart,” Hannibal specifies as he begins to sweep her across the floor, “Understandable.”

Bedelia’s smirk grows wider and she eases into his embrace as they continue to dance; the feel of her body moving in unison with his makes Hannibal’s pulse race.

“Why did you buy me the bracelet, Hannibal?” she asks unexpectedly, gently shifting her hand to rest on his shoulder, the jewels on her wrist catching the light of the chandeliers with soft brilliance.

“I do not need a reason,” he responds, taking her hand and placing a kiss on her fingertips, uncaring for the public setting.

He has been showering her with gifts since they arrived in Europe, surely one more does not make a difference.

“No, you don’t, but this is special,” she presses on, pressing herself closer to him.

It was. Bought on a Christie’s auction, rerouted through two different countries until it reached its destination, making sure it cannot be traced to her. He always takes extra care when it comes to Bedelia. And he knows she wishes he would apply the same concern to himself.

“I am not as good with dates as you are, Hannibal,” another prompting telling Hannibal she will not be misled. He would expect nothing less.

The dance carries on as Hannibal searches for the right words, considering the gift might have been inappropriate.

“This is the day we made love for the first time,” the words leave his mouth in a hurry and his eyes instantly avoid meeting hers.

Still, he feels the intensity of her stare, following the lines of his face, as she contemplates his admittance.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” she asks simply.

“I did not want to you to get the wrong impression,” he admits, gradually shifting his gaze to level with hers.

“That the pleasure of my body requires a recompense?” her eyebrow arches.

“Yes, that impression, but you know that is not what I meant,” his words feel suddenly misplaced.

“I am sure your other lovers did not complain,” she teases him further with a playful spark in her eyes.

Hannibal stops abruptly and pulls her closer, hand moving lightly over the exposed curve of her spine.

“You are not like other lovers, Bedelia. You never were,” an instant need to proof his statement overpowers his mind as he continues to hold her firmly, fingertips sliding over her skin, sensing her body slowly surrendering to the caresses.

“I guess the occasion calls for a celebration then,” she presses herself keenly against his chest.

“It does,” Hannibal purrs with barely contained desire, his self-control tested to its very limits.

They are gone long before the melody ends.

 

**Ruby**

Like a storm rising on the horizon, Bedelia feels a headache coming, heavy clouds gathering in the back of her head and pressuring forward. She takes a deep breath, attempting to ignore the distant throbbing and concentrate on the conversation in place.

And it is not a simple task. The woman in front of her, her newest patient, spent the entire session recalling details of her husband’s affairs. The husband, Bedelia knows, she will never leave. An utter waste, like trying to apply a plaster to a gunshot wound. She does not care what the woman does with her time (or money), but she values hers and it’s being squandered for no reason.

Bedelia nods briefly, offering expected words of encouragement, while already looking forward to the end of this hour. Perhaps reopening her practice was not the _best_ idea, although it seemed like it at the time. She had grown tired of playing the role of Lydia Fell and needed something to stimulate her mind in between her lectures. But her patients were _all but_ stimulating. Even after eliminating the expected news hunters, eager to meet the “wife of the cannibal”, the remaining offers left a lot to be desired. Interesting cases appear to be scant these days.

_Weren’t they always?_

Finally, she bids the woman goodbye, already composing her referral in the back of her mind, hoping it will help disperse the mass of condensed pressure still weighting on her head.

The door closes, and her house becomes still, silence so deep you can drown in it. Bedelia usually relished the quietude of her own place, but now it feels foreign. Empty. She paces up and down the corridor, walking in and out of rooms as if searching for something. And finding nothing. She pauses in front of the stairs, but her feet are unwilling to take her to her bedroom.

With a heavy sigh, she returns to her office. As she enters, her fingers skim the upholstery of the chairs, still emitting the brand-new factory smell, having been bought barely a month ago. Bedelia decided her new start needed a new décor; a not so subtle way of ensuring the ghosts (well, _ghost_ ) of her therapy past won’t haunt the sessions of her future. Subconsciously, she knew it was for nought, but it was worth the try. She was willing to try anything.

But these are not the memories that manifest themselves tonight, nor it’s the reason she is more reluctant than usual to retire to her bedroom. That is where her ghost roams tonight.

She pours herself a glass of whiskey and sits down on her chair, taking a mouthful, burning pleasantly in the back of her throat and taking her mind away from her headache. And her thoughts. Placing the glass on the armrest, she watches as the last rays of daylight catch in the crystal and split among the golden liquid. Still her thoughts persist as she listens in vain expectation, waiting for the stillness to be broken. Like she did two years ago.

She can almost hear the muffled sound of the shower and her careful steps as she entered the bedroom to find bloodied clothes on the floor and a man in her bathroom. The fateful night that had changed her life forever.

She recalls the fear and worry at the sight of Hannibal’s battered body, and how soon it gave way to yearning that she had kept at bay during their months apart. _Come away with me._ He pleaded with a longing of his own. And she did. It felt so simple.

Somehow, she is still anticipating hearing the water running, irksome speck of misplaced hope, rooted too deep within her to be purged.

She wonders if he is thinking of her as well. There is no doubt in her mind that he remembers the date, his memory palace safeguarding them all, but does he recall _her_? Does he think about their time together, all that was, all that could have been? She detests herself for even considering this notion and even more so for the way her heart leaps to it.

The image of Hannibal lingers in her mind. Alone in his cell, sitting over a blank piece of paper, lost in thoughts of their time together, composing a letter that he will never write, but still putting her name down, like an enchantment locked in ink.

Bedelia blinks the sudden tears away, still refusing to acknowledge the pain in her heart spilling so unabashedly. Having finished her drink, she stands up and sets the empty glass down on the chair. His former spot. There is no perfume bottle to be placed here this time, no promise to be made.

He will know exactly where to find her. Because she wants him to.

 

**Amethyst**

Standing in the open back door, Hannibal stretches his limbs, inhaling slowly, the crisp air rousing his senses. He looks at the garden, green foliage glistening in the morning sun, nature stirring from its slumber, similar to his own mind, returning to its prowess after years of being devoid of stimulation.

The secluded villa at the outskirts of the city appears to be an ideal place for a couple in search of a romantic solitude. And there is no need for them to have a cover story. It feels like their second honey moon.

Hannibal returns to the kitchen where coffee is already brewing and reaches for the basket of fresh fruits, surveying the selection. The peaches are finally ripe, he hopes she will enjoy them. His knife slices through soft fruits without difficulty, juice pouring over the blade, the sweet scent filling the air. He takes a segment, bringing it to his mouth and slowly savouring the taste, his raw hunger for life awakened with vigour.

But there are things he hungers for more. His mind ventures to Bedelia, still sleeping soundly in their bedroom. Hannibal smiles, knife stopping above the board, lost in contemplation, the feel of her body against his still vivid on his skin. As his thoughts wonder, his gaze slides from the cool silver blade to the warm gold glow of his wedding ring. The images of last night get pushed aside with a sharp blow as a door in his memory palace opens rapidly and a clear remembrance emerges from its frescoed walls. He has almost missed the date. Silently disapproving of himself, he finishes preparing breakfast and positions the dishes on a tray, before going back to the bedroom.

He wonders if she remembers too.

The sight of her makes him stop in the doorway; he greedily takes it all in after too many years of separation and now a new scene enrols in front of him. Bedelia, already awake, reclines across the bed with her arm extended, quietly admiring the rings on her finger. The hand freezes when she notices him, her eyes flickering between Hannibal and the tokens. She smiles at him and an instant recognition passes between them. His chest tautens, heart pushing against his rib cage with strange urgency.

She remembers.

Hannibal sets the tray down on the nearest chair and joins her in bed, sliding under the sheets and wrapping his arms around her.

“Good morning,” her voice is still husky from the cover of sleep. It vibrates beneath Hannibal’s skin in the most enticing way.

“Good morning,” he answers and reaches for her hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a firm kiss to her ring finger, the gold bands cold against her warm skin. His lips stretch in a smile against her palm; he is happy to have her safe and snug.

Bedelia responds with a soft hum, interlacing their fingers and gently tracing the line of his own ring with her fingertip, another smile curling about her lips.

Four years ago, they exchanged these rings on a balcony in Paris. Unspoken vows and unfeigned commitment. To this very day. The rings have changed but the bond remained untouched.

Her eyes study him quietly, study _them_ he suspects, and Hannibal willingly submits to her scrutiny. He wants to be an open book and fill his blank pages with nothing but her. He kisses her hand once more, like a seal on its cover.

“No gifts, Hannibal,” she looks at him sternly, managing to put him in his place even while lying naked in his arms.

Hannibal’s gaze falls in quiet disappointment.

“It will be easier to travel without an _excessive_ luggage,” she tilts her head knowingly, a clear comment on her already growing wardrobe. Hannibal has fallen into his old habits with ease. He offers her a not-so-contrite grin.

“And I have everything I need,” she reaches out to stroke his cheek in a tender consolation.

His embrace tightens, and she sighs contentedly; the feeling is more than mutual.

“Besides, I am not able to reciprocate any gift, since we barely left the bed this week, let alone the house,” her reprimand is now supplemented by a kittenish smile, arousing Hannibal in an instant, “I do not think my legs remember how to walk.”

She turns in his arms and stretches herself slowly as if to prove a point, her body casually brushing against his. Hannibal groans; the notion of breakfast is forgotten.

“We need to remedy this,” he suggests, his lips already on her collarbone, hands eagerly tracing her curves.

“That is not how this works, Hannibal,” a faint attempt of protest immediately gives way to purrs of delight.

The fruits turn dry and the morning passes with the sun now high up over the villa, but it all goes unnoticed.

Later that day, as Bedelia gives her sore muscles a relief in the cold pool, Hannibal sits quietly in their bedroom, tying a white ribbon around a black box, before hiding it at the very top of their wardrobe. He then carefully sneaks a new dress among her others, an impostor not to revealed until the appropriate date.

The second honey moon is deserving of a second marriage.

 

**Cat's Eye**

She awakes to a vibrant spurt of red and pink gracing the counter of her vanity. Through half open eyes, she notices a large bouquet of flowers framed by the white border of the mirror, like a painting of a Flemish master. Bedelia closes her eyes again and smiles, inhaling deeply. Carnations and lilies, their gentle aroma lulls her back into a shallow sleep. There is nowhere she needs to rush.

When she wakes up fully and lengthens her languid limbs, she is eager to inspect the flowers. Open buds and large petals, all in full bloom, are soft under her fingertips. She maps them slowly, enjoying the elaborate composition, colours of warm summer sunset. Or of passion and blood, how very Hannibal. Her gaze shifts to a small package, sitting inconspicuously next to the vase; she lifts the cover to find a pair of riding gloves. The corner of her mouth turns up in another smile; she is certain she will find a matching outfit in her wardrobe.

With one more smell of the flowers, she slips on her robe and goes to find Hannibal, her bare feet light on the stairs, a sudden spring in her step. Her fingers playfully graze the polished handrail as she considers the serenity of the castle and the peace it brings to her mind.

“Hello,” she welcomes him from the threshold of the kitchen where, as expected, he already busies himself with breakfast.

“Good morning,” his face lights up in a smile, the thrill of seeing her never tempered.

Bedelia’s fingertips leisurely trace the line of his naked shoulders as she passes by and settles herself on her usual chair. A cup of coffee is placed in front of her at once, topped with a kiss on her lips. The drink is extra hot, just the way she likes it best; she has long stopped wondering how he knows when she wakes up. She takes a careful sip, watching as Hannibal lines up freshly baked pastries on the counter, small, golden squares, warm and tempting.

“Nothing too heavy, Hannibal. I want to go riding later,” she comments as he arranges the treats on two plates.

“Horse riding?” he asks, almost too casually.

“Yes,” she pauses, taking another mouthful of her coffee, “I felt a sudden _fancy_ this morning.”

She puts her cup down, not offering any further explanation, looking at Hannibal but he merely smiles, not prompting her either. He is not willing to yield first. Bedelia smiles back, enjoying their game. Neither is she.

“Would you like to join me?” she asks instead and Hannibal’s face lights up anew.

“Of course.”

He manages to feed her two pastries before she finishes her coffee.

 

The jacket fits ideally, slender and elegant, undoubtedly bespoke, its raven black a perfect contrast to her horse’s stark white coat. She brushes his mane and he neighs happily, fond of her touch. They have grown attached to each other over the last year.

She sets off riding first, not waiting for Hannibal, the lightness she noticed this morning turning to exhilaration and making her blood rush. The path is familiar, no corner of the grounds remained unexplored, but she likes to roam still, the forest never stays the same and can surprise her, fuelling her wonderment.

A sound of hooves and impatient neigh announces Hannibal’s arrival, his horse calling out to hers. Bedelia turns her head, but does not stop, instead, she urges her horse and gallops away, leaving Hannibal in the distance. Her long locks flow behind her, a cliché metaphor for unbound liberty, but that is exactly how she feels. Free.

They reach a clearing in the forest and Bedelia stops. Hannibal catches up to her in no time, an impressive feat since he is always less steady on horseback than her. His horse joins hers, grazing on the patches of grass while Hannibal takes his time to fix the unruly strands of her wind-blown hair with clear delight. His thumb caresses the flushed skin of her cheek as he stares at her with adoration, as though she was his very own forest goddess that he came here to worship. Bedelia accepts his offering with ardour, his touch makes her pulse sprint faster than the ride. She lets his arm wrap around her as they take a stroll around the clearing. Free and content.

 

“I think I’ll rest for a bit,” Bedelia announces upon their return to the castle, removing her gloves, “The fresh air has tired me.”

Hannibal’s hands hover over her shoulders, helping her with the jacket.

“As you wish,” he states courtly, a distant tone of disappointment echoing beneath his words, but he does not press the subject, “I will be down here if you need me.”

He carefully folds her jacket and hands it over to her with a nod. Bedelia inclines her head in gratitude and disappears up the stairs, his longing stare accompanying her departure.

The bedroom door closes behind her and only then she allows herself a grin. She does not intend to rest, not really, but she wants to freshen up nonetheless. She draws herself a hot bath, her usual bath oils replaced by one containing flecks of gold. They cling to her skin when she emerges from the water, a wood spirit turned sea nymph.

Bedelia gives her gleaming body a silent appraisal as she arranges her hair, smooth tresses ending in gentle curls, Hannibal’s favourite. She then retrieves a box hidden in their wardrobe, a lingerie set bought especially for this occasion. He is not the only one keeping secrets in the drawers. The fine gossamer lace hugs her body in the most enticing manner; Bedelia smiles at her reflection, adorning her lips with a touch of red. Anticipation vibrates under her skin as she adjusts the bustier, her breasts feeling more tender, her body already yearning to be admired and touched.

Quietly, she slips to the main hall, making final preparations.

As promised, she finds him waiting downstairs, sitting by his desk, the silence of the room broken only by the soft scratch of pencil on paper. Two glasses of port in her hand, Bedelia stands behind him, looking over his shoulder at a perfect image of herself from earlier today, riding through the grounds.

“It is refreshing to see a drawing of me with clothes on,” she comments, watching him working prudently on the waves of her hair.

“I do not think I will be making this a permanent habi-” Hannibal looks up at her and his voice fails him. He stares at her, unblinking, taking in every inch of her and his gaze warms her skin further, gold specks shining more brightly under his wonderment.

“I see that you had a good rest,” his eyes twinkle wickedly, dark and lustful. His fingers reach out to toy with one of the locks resting on her shoulder.

“I did,” she almost pushes the glass into his hand as he does not take his eyes off her, as though afraid she would disappear if he did.

“To the first year in our home,” she raises her glass and sees a tremble of emotion passing through his gaze at the word “our”. This is all he wanted for her, to be at home here.

Wordlessly, Hannibal raises his glass and empties it in one mouthful. Bedelia takes a sip of her own drink before setting the glass down and taking Hannibal’s hand.

Obediently, he follows her without a question. She guides them in front of the fireplace, now dormant, the usual sofa pushed aside, and furs laid down on the floor.

“Where did you find them?” Hannibal asks, struck by the re-enactment of the scene of their first intimate time here.

“In Chiyoh’s hunting lodge, luckily she left them behind,” Bedelia responds, pleased with his reaction. It is not often that one sees Hannibal Lecter taken by surprise.

“This is perfect, Bedelia,” his voice brims with sentiments.

“I am afraid it is a treat you have already sampled numerous times,” she becomes instantly self-conscious, her “gift” might be no match for Hannibal’s always impeccable taste when it comes to finding perfect things for her.

Hannibal tilts his head as if he had misheard her, clearly not sharing her concerns. His hand wraps swiftly around her wrist and he pulls her against his body.

“It always tastes better than the previous time,” he proclaims earnestly, his eyes set aflame with lust.

Before she gets a chance to comment, he presses his lips against hers. She struggles to breath as he kisses her repeatedly, her lips burning from the intensity of his caresses. She soon matches his passion, hands tangling in his hair, her mouth tasting his without restrain, her appetite as ravenous as his.

His hands move over the lines of her back and waist, sure in their touch, knowing exactly how to make her come undone. The lace against her skin is all of a sudden too tight, begging to be removed, her hard nipples straining against the fabric and only arousing her further. Her legs turn to liquid along with the flood of desire swelling in her core.

She is glad when they finally sink onto the furs.

 

Much later, the echoes of their pleasure continue to reverberate in the distant corners of the castle as they lie together, spent and sated. Bedelia’s limbs still tingle with the remnants of fulfilment, slowly growing heavy and limp. She came apart three times in his arms and does not wish to put herself back together just yet. Hannibal’s fingers trace the curve of her back, chasing the last drops of her sweat before the settle themselves dry on her skin. Her head rests on his chest and she watches the gold specks now glimmering on his skin, catching the faint light seeping through the tall windows. She relishes the shared heat on their bodies; it used to be overwhelming, now she wants to sink deeper into the warmth.

Her eyes fall on the empty fireplace, remembering how it was alive a year ago, the first flicker of life in the half-ruined castle, making them feel welcome and urging them to stay, a timid promise of the things to come. Now the room brims with life, revelling in their happiness.

“Are you cold?” Hannibal asks with instant worry, noticing her looking at the fireplace.

“No, I am not,” she sighs, “I have not been cold for a very long time.”

She closes her eyes and snuggles into his embrace. She is home.

**Author's Note:**

> My second go at a five times fic; another journey through their relationship with my favourite alternating POV and with an addition of references to my own fics. The titles are based on gem stones assigned to wedding anniversaries (respectively 10, 13, 15, 17 and 18 years).  
> As always, feedback is love, let me know what you think.


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